The Archivists
by janiejanine
Summary: Abbie and Ichabod pull an all-nighter.


Ichabod let himself in through the archives' door and pulled a chair up to the table in the middle of the room. He'd arrived before Abbie had, even though he'd been on foot and she was undoubtedly driving.

Once he'd learned how to avoid traffic, he enjoyed walking whenever he could, even if he now had to dodge speeding metal death-traps instead of horses. On the whole, he much preferred the horses. They were certainly friendlier. And smelled better.

His equine musings were interrupted by the soft scrape of the door as Abbie nudged it open with her hip. Several bags dangled from one arm, and her other hand carried a familiar-looking cardboard tray. She set them on the table and began rummaging amongst the bags.

"I brought coffee," she said. "And a few of these, for later."

He caught sight of the can in her hand and recoiled. "_Energy drinks_. Miss Mills, is it worth it?"

"It has to be done, Crane," she said.

During the war, he'd become accustomed to coffee brewed over a campfire and strong enough to hold a horseshoe upright. Coffee from Starbucks, besides being absurdly expensive, seemed weak in comparison, until, at Abbie's urging, he'd tried something she called a "frappuccino" and fallen in caramel-coated, cream-topped love. He supposed that might be worth it.

"What exactly are we doing?" he asked.

She swept a hand towards the file boxes. "We need copies of this stuff. Otherwise, one fire and it's all gone. Wouldn't even need a demon to destroy it. So we're going to sort it and scan it, and then we'll have a digital copy."

"Digital. Will it be on the ninnernet?"

"In-ter-net."

"I apologize. _Internet_."

"Don't be sorry. You did a damn good job with it, considering they didn't even have typewriters back in your day."

"I did enjoy the encyclopedia." He couldn't wait to get another crack at that, actually. More information than a thousand libraries, all there in one little box. Incredible.

"There you go."

He took a long drink from his coffee cup. "It was going well, until that woman-" He stopped short.

"What woman?"

He busied himself with the next stack of papers. "There was a woman. She spoke to me. It was disconcerting."

Abbie's eyebrows went up. "Are you blushing?"

"I most certainly am not."

"You are!"

"She was in an advanced state of undress," he said, with as much dignity as he could muster.

Abbie's face worked for a minute as though she were trying not to laugh. "I'm going to stop leaving you alone with my laptop," she said.

"I assure you, Miss Mills, I did not do it on purpose."

"I believe you." She struggled for a moment longer and then lost the battle, snickering into her Starbucks cup. He did his best to maintain a solemn expression until her laughter subsided.

"No," she said, regaining her composure with visible effort. "It's going on this hard drive. It'll be available to whoever has it, but not online where anyone can see it."

She reached into one of her shopping bags and dug out a loudly crinkling packet. She pulled at the top, opening it with a screeching pop, and held it out to him. "Here. Peace offering."

He took it. The bag was labeled "Cheetos", whatever that meant. He peered inside. It was filled with small, pebbly things in a shade of orange he'd only seen in butterflies and wildflowers.

He popped one into his mouth. It was crunchy, salty, tangy, with an undertaste of-he chewed contemplatively-yes. Corn. Altogether satisfactory.

"These are excellent," he said, and reached for a sheaf of papers. His fingers brushed across the top page, leaving a streak of orange across the margin. He pulled his hand back and examined his fingers in dismay.

Abbie looked up. "Yeah, don't do that," she said. "Cheeto dust gets on everything."

"How inconvenient," he muttered. There was always a catch.

They worked for a while in a silence broken only by slurping and crunching. He sorted the various papers into piles, while she scanned them and packed them away.

The quiet was disturbed when Abbie opened another can with a loud _crack_. "At least we don't have to destroy another skull," she said.

Ichabod gave her a faint smile. "That was rather fun."

"Whatever you say, Wile E. Coyote," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Who?"

"That's a cartoon. You've seen them on TV. Like theater, but with drawings."

He shook his head.

"Never mind. I'll educate you later."

He returned to his work. The feel of the pages, stiff and rough with age, was a comfort. So many things in this new world lacked texture. Plastic was a wonder, but it just wasn't the same as running one's fingers over stone or leather or weathered wood. If he blocked out the rest of his surroundings, he could almost imagine himself at Oxford, whiling away hours in the library. He could almost pretend those small pleasures were not lost to him forever.

He picked up another sheet of paper, glanced at it, moved to file it, then stopped short. He peered closely at it and set it down with a thump.

Abbie jumped. "What's wrong?"

He held it up. The page contained prints of several small portraits. He pointed to the one on the right.

"It's Katrina," he said.

The vivid hair of the portrait's subject was what first caught his eye, but it was the face that held it. The artist had captured the expression in her eyes, as though she held a tantalizing secret that would be shared with only a privileged few. There was a whimsical, familiar twist to her lips that made his chest ache.

Abbie's eyes scanned the caption. "It's in the MFA. We ever get a day off, we can go see it, if you want."

Ichabod looked down, drinking in the face he hadn't seen, except in his dreams, for over two hundred years. "I would like that very much," he said.

"Why don't you hang on to this?" she said, and handed the page back to him.

"Thank you," he said. He folded it carefully and tucked it inside his coat, next to his heart.


End file.
